The Fortunes of Rick and Johnny

By Johnny Davey

The Fortunes of Rick and Johnny is the true story of two very funny men who also happened to be talented musicians. For years they worked the pubs and clubs up and down the UK hoping that their double act would see them become the next Morecambe and Wise but fate had other ideas for them. 

They found fame with the 70's chart-toppers The Fortunes and then with The Rockin' Berries. Along the way, they even bumped into Elvis in Vegas but that big break as comedians was the one thing that eluded them. 

The Fortunes of Rick and Johnny is a funny, uplifting story of the pursuit of fame in a time when it had to be earned the hard way, the old-fashioned way. Most of all though, it is the heartwarming story of two men who became and remain, the best of friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John P. Davey
• Release date: Jul 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386275619

Book preview

CHAPTER  ONE

The best possible advice that I could offer anyone, is not to set your sights too high.  In fact, that particular gem was given to us, once, by a Careers Officer who choked on her coffee after hearing my announcement that we wanted to become the next Morecambe and Wise.  Our ambitions were fuelled with the kind of relentless desire and passion, normally associated with religious fanatics, so consequently, the practical advice we were given, flew over our blinkered heads, as our thoughts were always consumed with the prospect of becoming stars one day.  Even as a kid, staring at the cosmos, outside my parent’s house, in self-induced trances, I felt a sense of destiny.  I know that most people have similar experiences, but mine were in a daily queue of thoughts from the time I woke up, until my eyelids shut at night.  Thoughts like is there life after death, why has the number 115 been following me around all my life (as if the universe has always wanted me to know something) and how do the men who drive snow ploughs get to work in the mornings.  However, I had always been happy to live with these mysteries, with one exception and that is why the hell didn’t Rick and Johnny Davey (The Sausage Boys), make it to the top in show business?  By all accounts I guess we were a talented couple of entertainers but there lies a paradox because there are no accounts, except for this one.  We were the best kept secret in show business and even when we achieved notoriety, it wasn’t for what we original intended, but isn’t that just the way life pans out for most of us, always thinking that we haven’t ’made it’ when we probably already have, continually searching for that illusive happiness, like trying to find your glasses, when wearing them?  To put it in a nut shell (and I heard you could, little Ern) we are all stars in our own lives and it’s not until we look back that we can see ourselves twinkle.  There were a few theories as to why we didn’t hit the dizzy altitudes of stardom (although it’s still not over yet) and that was our naivety, which was always there to be exploited as we were easily led up the garden path, with promises of stardom, a word that had a hypnotic affect on us, like a flute to a cobra.  For long periods, we were like a skipper-less boat, without a rudder, on full throttle, destined for a rough but enjoyable ride.  However, being the eternal optimist and disregarding that heartbreaking night that was still no excuse for not quite reaching the starry heights, of which I had dreamt.

In the early 1970’s, our friends and audiences alike, could never comprehend as to why success was eluding us as we were always bombarded with the same repetitive questions, like, why aren’t you boys on the telly? and why aren’t you getting more work than you do?

Yes, we’ve got lots of work in the diary, I’d say, We’re even taking bookings for 1999, which is good because we generally only go out for fifteen quid. 

Being young and green, we were enormously influenced about what people said about us, which was not a good thing, as our audiences were extremely fickle.  So, we decided that they didn’t know what they were talking about. 

They know nothing! we’d scream to each other, unless it was praise, of course.  Occasionally, we would get the odd committee member, offering us some constructive criticism like, You’re shite and you’ll never be as good as Eric and Ernie. 

Those kinds of people were always self elected and deluded entertainment consultants, who could destroy your confidence in an instant.  I couldn’t recollect the amount of times the immortal words, were said to us, if you go down well here, son, you’ll go down well anywhere.  It didn’t ring true to me, that if you were successful in entertaining a lot of drunken slobs at ‘Cess pit United Social Club,‘ you would automatically go onto win them over at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas. 

To be a club comic, you had to be extremely tough mentally, which we were not, in the early stages, but we did have an overwhelming love and enthusiasm of what we did, which got us through difficult situations.  This shone through to most of the people, in the end.  When our audiences came to the conclusion that they liked us, they would make us feel so elated; we performed on another level.  The indescribable euphoria, that the body’s chemicals provided you with on such occasions, was the carrot in front of the donkey.  We were adrenalin junkies, never relaxing for one moment, for that was our nature, which played a great part in our performance and always gave us an edge.  That, plus the energy youth provided, demanded attention, even when our material was weak.

It always amazed (and upset) me that the audience felt that they had license to threaten and shout the most horrendous insults, whilst we were performing.  The thought of turning the tables and recruiting a crowd of vitriolic, venomous, mouthy critics to walk the streets, slagging off people in their work places, has always appealed to me.  Imagine how a builder, for instance, might react to a hostile crowd of two hundred people, shouting detrimental obscenities about his workmanship.  Oi, Brickie - that’s the worst garden wall I’ve ever seen built.  It’s a pile of shit, why don’t you piss off to where you came from, you useless cockney bastard!  You are to building, what Pavarotti is to pole vaulting!  However, I was told that heckling was par for the course and that calm seas do not make skilled sailors, so we carried on with our endeavour. 

For two boys, in 1970’s Ruislip, to have such lofty ambitions., thirty years ago, was like saying that you were about to become an Astronaut.

We’re going to be a comedy double act, I announced in the pub to my friends. 

I see, said the resident piss-taker, but don’t you have to be funny and talented to do that?

Everyone in the pub laughed, and it hurt, but it was the first of many cruel remarks for Rick and Johnny Davey to deal with, in the pubs, clubs and theatres all over the UK.

I’d always had a burning desire to be an entertainer of some sort because of the influential school opera I accidentally walked into, just minutes after being set on fire in the Science lab.  Edward Barrett school for boys was a breeding ground for bullies of the highest order and ninety percent of the pupils were world class torturing, pain distributors  worthy of a post with the Spanish Inquisition.  Recognising bullies before they demonstrated their particular expertise was impregnated into my adolescent years as I spent most of my time ducking and diving out of potential beatings.  One time while being chased by two demented morons, I ran up a tree without the assistance of any branches which instantly baffled my pursuers as well as me.  It was one of many defensive tactics I discovered I had, plus diving out of windows at great heights and landing in hedges. The film ‘Tom Brown’s Schooldays’ always inspired me no matter how many times I watched it, witnessing young Brown’s courage and tenacity as he stood up against the school tyrant, ’Flashman’ always motivated me.  However, if I could have swapped places with Brown, I would of, as his thrashings were nothing compared with the sadistic Nazi’s that attended our school.  Meaningless initiation ceremonies were plentiful at break time when some poor sod would be dunked faced first in the fish pond whilst simultaneously having his trousers ripped off and slashed to threads.  De-baggings, as they were called, were not unusual as pupils were regularly seen walking around the rest of the day in their underpants, if they were lucky.  The ridicule didn’t stop there as the female contingency would rub salt further into the humiliating wound by making references to their anatomies including cries of, ‘gnats cock’ or ‘micro-dick’, which generally stuck for a few weeks afterwards, until they were updated with a more potent degree of ridicule.  The sticks and stones adage could not be more wrong.  It should read ‘sticks and stones may break my bones but names will leave me without any confidence and permanently scarred, with an inferiority complex for the rest of my life’.  The teachers were equally merciless as well, dishing out corporate punishment by way of bare-arsed thrashings in front of everyone in the assembly hall akin to the floggings received on ancient sailing ships for insubordination.  Consequently, the morale amongst us was always very low and was not helped by students attacking each other constantly for sheer amusement just to see the excruciating pain on some poor bastard’s face after being kicked in the balls by a winkle picker or shot in the neck at point blank range, with an air pistol.  It was on one such occasion that in retrospect I should be grateful as it gave my life a new meaning and direction that unconsciously I was probably seeking.  The class thug was bored one day, in the science lab, so he decided to set fire to my shirt, making me run around like a stunt man in a 007 film.  The panic of becoming a ball of flames made me lash out with a Bunsen burner and I smashed my attacker over the head with it, drawing blood, so we were frog marched off to the Head, where the punishment was administered, with the usual bare arsed thrashing normally associated with sexual masochistic perverts. 

I remember the day walking out of the Head Masters office Mr Charles Basket with my arse on fire and my burnt shirt hanging from my shoulders, thoroughly broken in spirit and seeking a shoulder to cry on.  Feeling very ‘Tom Brownish’, I was distracted by some happy music in the assembly hall.  Stunned by this dichotomy, I peered in, to see half a dozen students chirping out a few notes, around the piano, with the music teacher.  The teacher noticed me and beckoned me over and said, what the hell happened to you, boy, you look like you‘ve had your fingers in the electric sockets?  My shirt caught on fire, Sir, I replied.  Would you like to elaborate?  No, Sir, I said.  OK, come over here, we need a tenor, he barked.  I’m skint, Sir, Don’t try to be funny, we could do with another voice and you’re it.  He then ordered me to join in with the chorus line, which I did.  I had no idea what I was going to sing but it didn’t seem to matter as I had inadvertently cast myself into a Gilbert and Sullivan opera.  I’d been thrown a lifeline and my new-found friends were a mixture of parents, in the chorus line, and selected talented pupils playing the lead parts.  It occurred to me how these pupils managed to avoid the daily kicking’s dished out to everybody, especially anoraks in the opera but was intrigued to find out that bullies were mesmerized by artistes of the performing kind and were pacified by music and comedy, like a lullaby to a baby.  The first thing I did was to buy a guitar and learn a few chords as I thought I could squeeze myself into the orchestra as a vacancy was available.

The music teacher saw me strumming away one day and said that he thought he could use my limited musicianship, not in the band but as Nanki Poo, the protagonist and wandering minstrel in the Mikado.  I couldn’t sing or play very well but neither could my nemesis in the opera, Koko, the lord high executioner, played by Richard Percy, a reformed school bully, better known as Rick, my future partner.  Destiny had brought us together at the ripe old age of sixteen but we didn’t start our professional career for another seven years, which was conducive for a couple of easily distracted and gullible time wasters that we were.  Although I was miscast as Nanki Poo in the Mikado, there was something magical about the wondering Minstrel character that I liked, so I carried on my career in my bedroom for a few years, doing Elvis Presley impressions with an imaginary backing band.  In fact, my first real band was an ‘air’ rock band.  Once a week, after school, four friends and I (Rick being one of them) would meet in my bedroom, at 115 Florence Grove, with our invisible instruments and head bang to Jimmy Hendrix, The Who, Zeppelin and any other heavy rock band of that era.  Gradually, as time went on, real instruments appeared and after months of rehearsals, we decided to learn how to play them, dressed as contemporary rock stars, with top hats, cigars and mink waistcoats.  We were told our first gem by my father, If you look the part, you’re half way there.  Fake it till you make it.

My Dad, Ernie, was a retired pro, who used to sing in west end shows, in his day and, at weekends, he kept it alive with his brother, Bill, (Uncle Beer, as we affectionately called him) who played the banjo, in my Dads musical duo.  My Dad was always threatening to go around the world with his musical two-piece in a motor home but settled for a residency at the local British Legion instead, which gave Rick and me an opportunity to sharpen up our performing skills by putting us on the maracas and tambourine for the night.  We realised we’d lose our street ‘cred’ by playing ‘Tie a Yellow Ribbon Around the Old Oak Tree‘ but not having performed in public yet, we needed the experience, besides we only knew one song (Hey Joe, by Jimmy Hendrix) and hadn’t worked out an ending for it.  It was one of our faults, not finishing anything we started, together with procrastination mind changing speaking out of context (Rick’s speciality) and not listening to any valuable advice along the way, due to staring into space, dreaming of stardom.  Our band never got out of the bedroom and the other members soon left Rick and I ‘riffing’ away together on our guitars, on our own, as they said we were not serious enough and were ego trippers.  Consequently, comedy crept into our little bedroom duo and soon the seeds of a double act started to germinate as we even had our own mantra and motto, ‘We’re Stars‘ which we said to each other all the time, although fame for fames’ sake was not what we wanted.  My Uncle ‘Beer’ told me once, if you give up your self respect for fame, you will end up losing both.

Of course, the double act was a year or two away, but the time wasn’t wasted, as we gradually underwent a metamorphosis from manic ‘Rock Group’ to ‘Comedy Duo’ and at twenty-one years of age, we knew our destiny was to be the next Laurel and Hardy!  So, we got down to some serious work and talked about it for another two years, fantasising and daydreaming about appearing at the London Palladium, one day, as usual.  We lived within our imagination for long periods, which were very time consuming for us, so we decided to move out of our minds and into the real world, whatever that was.

In 1976, when the Voyager Space Probe began its’ journey to the stars, Rick and I were twenty-three years old and just beginning ours.  A variety of new things were happening, like the birth of punk rock, and if the Sex Pistols could make it, then so could Rick and Johnny, therefore we decided to become a professional double act.  We both had dark brown hair and green eyes.  I was tall and skinny, with legs like Mickey Mouse and a shock of thick brown hair, like the ‘gonks’ that we used to put on the end of our pencils, at school.  My hair stayed in whatever position you put it, perfect for comedy and for cleaning saucepans!  Rick was the short, stocky, arrogant one (suitable straight man material) and I was the long, thin idiotic other half.  Rick’s entire script initially was, ‘excuse me what do you think you’re doing, you’re ruining my act’.  He created a character of big headed pomposity who thought he knew everything, something he said that always came very easy for him.  Straight man/funny man was the thing then, but we couldn’t quite pull it off, as we were too young, so we decided to grow moustaches.  All successful funny comics in those days were in their 30 to 40's and Jimmy Tarbuck used to say you’re not funny till your 40, (so he must have still been in his thirties, when he said that).  I decided to get